


Splat

by hazk



Series: Limbo [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, During "Split", Gen, Season/Series 15, Writing Exercise, s15 e20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-15 16:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15416898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazk/pseuds/hazk
Summary: “Like you wouldn’t do the same!”





	Splat

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during “Split”: to stop Temple’s time/bomb/machine from doing its thing, Grif and Simmons chose to split up.

Grif headed down the hallway to the left. Simmons ran right.

It hadn’t taken much convincing to allow Grif to take off on his own. It was so much easier for Simmons to just keep on running and focus only on his own two feet, through a labyrinth of hallways where hopefully at least one of them would make it to where they needed to be - and thinking too much could have just led to another argument that they were better off never having, anyway.

Avoiding the simulation troopers and a few stray bullets, Simmons managed to slip from one corridor to the next in what felt like hours of running. But it only took one wide-open doorway to change the scenery, and for him to realize it wouldn’t be him who would save the day.

The direction he had chosen had taken him right out the building, and there was no turning back. Not with the enemy already having noticed him and lifting his weapon, in a surprised move not too unlike Simmons’ own.

The secluded space away from the rest of the fight allowed them a second of complete silence, just the two of them staring at one another in perfectly mirrored stances. Practically face to face.

Gene was the last person Simmons had wanted to see but, then again…

It could be good to prove he was better than the copycat.

 

* * *

 

Gene took the first shot right over Simmons’ shoulder, forcing the other maroon soldier to drop low and approach him without any cover available. With Simmons leaping towards him, Gene hissed and shoved him back so that he could aim again.

Simmons tumbled backwards. It was an odd reflex that made him drop his rifle and charge Gene head on, reaching for the knife instead.

With his teeth grit, Simmons angled himself to hit Gene. Low and angry.

His rifle might have been gone but so was Gene’s, who was quick to drop his upon impact. He cursed and scrambled backwards with blood beginning to sprout from his leg.

Simmons swallowed, holding back whatever words he could have spat out at the sight. He caught his breath and forced himself to keep focused on the enemy, to not give him any time to recover.

Every muscle in Simmons’ body felt strained when he waited for his chance to jump again. And he didn’t have to wait for long – the moment came a second later, when Gene opened his mouth to scream out in a mix of agony and anger:

_“You got to be fu–!“_

Using his cybernetic leg, Simmons launched himself at Gene’s limping form –

Or so he would have if that split second hadn’t been the exact same when a gunshot rang from somewhere to Simmons’ left, making him reflexively turn his head to see the newly approaching enemy and scramble back down for cover.

Simmons lost his advantage.

Gene’s eyes had directed to the sound as well, but his position allowed him to immediately realize the shot hadn’t been aimed at them or even taken anywhere near by – it had rung through the pipes as nothing more than an echo.

With a grunt, Gene turned his realization into a chance of his own, using Simmons’ distraction to strike.

Gene wasn’t holding back.

Simmons couldn’t keep his balance with the way his leg twisted upon impact, with Gene’s full weight hitting his already covering down frame. Immediately after, even the weak punch Gene threw at his visor was enough to scramble his brain, making him tumble backwards for another step.

Simmons collapsed against the wall, metal hitting metal in a loud screech as he gasped; his breath caught upon impact. Slowly, his eyes focused back at Gene who turned away from Simmons to rush back for his weapon, reaching for the rifle despite the way his leg gushed blood under the strain.

The knife was still lodged in, bleeding.

Simmons tried to tell his body to move, run, take cover, _anything,_ but the stunned moment of indecision he found himself stuck in was yet another failure on his part. His eyes widened when Gene spun back around, the rifle pointed his way.

Gene let out a loud, unstable cackle at regaining the upper hand.

“YOU’RE DONE!” Gene screeched through his laugh, unsteadily standing up and straightening to look the part he was playing, even with his bleeding leg shaking under his weight. _“FUCK YES!”_

Simmons grit his teeth and his eyes flew from left to right to read the area, to find anything he could use as another distraction. But nothing had changed from before.

He had no choice but to refocus fully on Gene, who was trembling on his feet with the rifle pointed at Simmons’ face. Gene's voice shook, but his words were clear:

“Get up! _Move!”_

Gene was no longer laughing, the elation he felt at his victory being quickly overshadowed by something else. Probably the pain he was beginning to register the more he moved around, Simmons thought.

Straining to get his own feet working, Simmons inched up the wall and kept glancing at the hallway in hopes of something or someone getting Gene to turn his back to him again. Just a moment would be enough.

Simmons wouldn’t allow himself to hesitate, no more than Gene had.

“Let’s just… calm down a bit…” Simmons mumbled, his fair share of memories of being held at gunpoint coming back to him in a flash when he ran through the possibilities on how this scenario could end for him.

With no one else there, the odds of Simmons being the one Gene decided to shoot in the head were obvious enough. 

Without a word, Gene sneered and gestured for Simmons to move along the wall. The two of them circled their positions until Gene could usher him towards the edge of the platform instead of the solid wall he had been leaning against before. With Gene limping after him, Simmons glanced behind himself, realizing that this was the last corner he would like to be backed into.

It hit him then that there was no use to think about it further, stuck there and listening to Gene ramble on and on about whatever under his breath. Thinking wouldn’t change it.

The best distraction Simmons had to offer was himself.

_“GRIF!”_

With his hands raised in surrender, Simmons made a rapid gesture, not sure what his flailing limbs were trying to convey but being successful at it anyway.

Gene flinched and took a step towards the wall before looking behind himself with the rifle raised, not turning his back to either Simmons or the entrance.

Simmons allowed himself a moment of surprise – _shock, even, but never jealousy_ – that Gene hadn’t just spun around on the spot. Gene had managed to keep his aim at Simmons even through his quick response, in a manner more fitting of someone capable of the whole "being in control and looking like it" shtick.

Fuck him.

_Fuck him._

If this was the only reaction Simmons was going to get, he had to work with it – hoping at least Gene’s eyes behind the visor weren't looking at him, when he rushed forward again.

Simmons had to get a hold of the rifle.

He dropped low and rushed at Gene’s side, kicking at his injured leg before reaching for the weapon. Gene let out a surprised snarl and reflexively clutched the rifle more firmly when he leaned away from Simmons.

Gene was already about to lose his balance when another kick by Simmons connected directly with the knife still jammed through the plates of his armor, making it twist in its spot. Gene let out a scream as more blood spewed from the wound on his leg, the knife being knocked free and clattering on the ground by the force of the hit.

Unable to get a hold of the rifle, Gene’s flailing limbs were enough to kick Simmons off him. They both lost their footing.

The blood was free to soak up the ground now, with nothing keeping it in place. In shock, Gene fell against the railing and took a hold of the bars there, the rifle still hanging loosely from his hand. He let out choked curses at the pain, shaking his head in rapid movements.

His mind cleared faster than Gene’s, and Simmons scrambled forward to reach for the rifle again.

Gene winced.

Pushing back with his working leg, Gene’s body was working on autopilot when he responded to Simmons’ movement by kicking him at his side, still attempting to keep him at a distance. Gene knew he had to keep his hold on the rifle and, the next moment he could, take the shot.

Simmons knew the same, and couldn’t let it happen.

On his knees, Simmons rushed forward to hit Gene with his entire frame. He hoped the weight of his armor against Gene’s already unsteady position would be enough to get him down completely, leaving him unable to get back up with his bleeding leg.

But Gene wasn’t about to give in. Using his injured leg, he kicked at Simmons again.

Hitting each other at the same time, they both staggered on their place. Just barely on their knees, they leaned with their full weight against the railing separating them from the fall off the side of the base.

Wide eyed behind his visor, Simmons turned to face Gene, only to see he had managed to already reach down and curl his fingers around the knife that had fallen on the ground by him. Simmons didn’t have time to do anything other than yelp and push back before the blade was jammed at him and straight to his knee, neatly lodged past the armor plating.

It was Simmons’ turn to scream.

The next few moments flashed by in red, the sharp pain rendering his brain useless as Simmons trashed backwards and forced himself back to his feet. But he was closely followed by Gene, who was also pulling his bleeding leg behind him with pure adrenaline helping him straighten.

Gene had kept his hold on the knife when Simmons had pulled back, still having it in his right hand while the rifle hung uselessly on his left. Simmons wasn’t out of it enough to not realize what that meant for him.

Before Simmons could act on this thought, however, Gene seemed to come to some other realization; doing something Simmons didn’t immediately understand.

The rifle fell to the ground.

Simmons cursed, in the split second it took for Gene to start running at him.

Gene’s injury appeared easier to handle than his, Simmons thought just as he felt his knee give in from underneath him right as Gene jumped at him with the knife raised.

Instinctively, Simmons lifted his arms to parry the strike, bracing for impact with his cybernetic leg pulled back to take his full weight.

But what Simmons wasn’t expecting was Gene pressing low and switching the direction of his attack, not flinging the knife at him like Simmons had been thinking. Instead, Gene hit Simmons with his left shoulder, at full force, and Simmons’ injured knee couldn’t handle the impact even with the additional support.

He staggered against the railing and gasped, his cybernetic eye warning him of the angle in a manner that only told him one thing right before it happened:

Simmons was falling off the ledge.

No.

No, _he wasn’t –_

Gene was throwing him over, with all his strength. Simmons couldn’t struggle, or even so much as breathe. At first.

It was only when his heart lurched, skipped a beat, and his lungs got that feeling of drowning in air, that Simmons’ arms finally reached around, his fingers almost convulsing to take a hold of anything that could keep him on the better side of the railing –

And the one thing he could have reached were Gene’s hands at his shoulders, pushing him back. But instead, it went the other way around.

Gene clung on to him.

Gene clung on to Simmons' right hand with his own and held on, tight.

Struggling to keep Simmons’ upper body from falling over the railing, Gene reached to take a better hold of Simmons’ another flailing arm as well – and the knife was still there, too, Simmons numbed down brain realized. The blade was pressed between their armor, with both of their blood still dripping off it and down the length of Simmons’ wrist -

_“God damn it –!“_

Gene was the only thing keeping Simmons from falling off, clearly straining to keep him from tipping over the rest of the way. Desperately, Simmons’ hands twitched in an attempt to clung onto Gene’s, but unable to do so with the way the other man held on to his wrists.

Simmons’ back screamed at the angle, and the combined weight of his armor and the cybernetics underneath pulled him back, towards nothing. Both his body and mind seemed to know all too well that whatever happened next was entirely out of his control.

Staring back at Gene’s visor, every muscle trembling and even his one organic eye having that half pained, half nervous twitch to it, Simmons had the thought:

Even if Gene let go – _if Simmons could somehow manage to take a hold of Gene’s wrists instead_ – he could at least pull the other soldier down with him.

Simmons’ injured leg was slipping on the ground and he could feel it lift in the air, no longer giving any support for the two of them. He couldn’t even feel the stab wound anymore, not with the way his mind numbed down with nothing but a foreboding ache.

He felt his body pull backwards yet another inch or two, gravity attempting to do its job and almost succeeding with each attempt.

Both Simmons and Gene let out a curse and a hiss, perfectly in sync and their voices impossible to tell apart. This was quickly followed by a chuckle, which Gene used to put up some air of confidence.

Simmons bit his mouth shut.

“Who… woulda guessed”, Gene managed to say, his breathing cut short and strained from the fight. There were tucks, Simmons’ body inching to pull backwards each second and his remaining leg slipping on the ground. Gene was in no better shape, with his own injury making him dizzy as he, too, slipped on the blood in a way that made them both grunt with each unbalanced pull.

“What, you…” Simmons attempted to force through his teeth while every inch of his body continued to scream in pain and panic.

“Like you wouldn’t do the same!”

The way Gene snorted and chuckled with Simmons’ own voice ringing back to his ears made him realize yet another fact, all too obvious:

This was all stupid as fuck, taken straight from Simmons’ worst nightmares. He should have guessed.

To hell with it.

Simmons couldn’t help but let out a small laugh with stuttering breaths. He managed to be loud enough to be heard by Gene, confusing him. Or at least it did based on the very small tilt to his helmet – Simmons’ brain hyper focused on the visual of another him staring him down.

Gene’s arms were beginning to shake more violently.

“Come on, Simmons, no, no need to _keep me hanging_ – if y-you want me to let, let go, I won’t complain, no one else here to, to catch you so –”

Gene was obviously uninterested in actually saving him, even with the struggle he went through just to hold Simmons back for a moment longer and while he spoke. He was just doing what he did for the chance it would somehow pay off.

A form of torture, maybe, with Gene certain he wouldn’t be pulled down no matter how much Simmons might have struggled. Not that he could have.

Simmons grit his teeth while his vision began to grow fuzzy, blood having long since drained from his face. A bead of sweat stung at the corner of his right eye, sliding down his forehead.

Before Simmons could force himself to decide what to say, to either get out one more pleading word or an attempt at insult just for the sake of some sort of conclusion, Gene leaned forward. Simmons yelped as his body almost tipped over entirely at their combined weight being re-distributed.

A droplet of blood from the knife made Simmons flinch, when it managed to hit him straight in the visor.

“You, you know”, Gene hissed through the strain, ”differences and all, we could get along –”

With stinging eyes, Simmons stared past the drop of red on his visor and focused only on the slipping hold Gene had on him. There were quite a few memories he could have still compared to his current circumstances, but what was the point.

Simmons snorted, or made an attempt to do so.

“ _No._ ”

As if ordered to, Gene flinched back.

It had been satisfying to be able to sum up every single feeling of acceptance and hatred into that one, simple word. Hatred for who, though; that was a whole another matter.

Simmons would have laughed if he had had the time, and the air, for it.

For a second, Simmons felt himself being pulled back up when Gene straightened – but it didn’t last for long.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Limbo of no control, no progress, no improvement; one impact and an ending.


End file.
